Lost and Never Found
by Captain Vox
Summary: John Watson has a secret: another toss of the flat brought on by Sherlock's sticky fingers may ruin it. Possible follow up, could be M. ON HOLD.
1. Chapter 1

John Watson had a secret, one that he didn't want discovered by anyone; a secret that he wanted hidden so badly, he barely took it out to look at himself. It remained tucked away at the back of his bedside table's drawer behind the laptop, gun, broken pencils, business cards, and a watch his sister had given him for Christmas. It was not to come out.

Walking into the flat one evening, John Watson froze quite suddenly. The main room was flooded with police. Lestrade was standing near the kitchen table looking quite pleased with himself indeed; a wallowing Sherlock hunched over a microscope and yelling profane utterances at whatever lay beneath the rectangular cover.

Frozen in a state of disbelief, shock, and all together horror, at the current situation John gaped. His thoughts went very quickly to his room, the table, into the drawer behind all of his life's rubbish, and to his secret. They were giving the place a good toss so one could assume Sherlock was refusing to help them or was currently hindering them in some way or another and so they were ransacking John and Sherlock's life to coerce the man into agreement.

"This was all just fine when I was not living here, Lestrade, but can't you show me some respect?" John asked stepping stiffly from his position and feeling panic rising with bile in his throat.

Lestrade looked over and his smile faded to a contemplative frown. "We have cause to search your flat, Doctor. I'm sorry. Sherlock here has stolen evidence. Not to mention my ID card…again."

"Sherlock, really?" John was heading for the stairs where a couple of policemen he didn't recognize from the Yard were starting for. "Uh, _that's_ _my_ room, thank you. I know he has nothing in there."

The two glanced at Lestrade but proceeded further up.

"Lestrade, please, tell them." John's eyes lurched over his shoulder to find the DI who merely shrugged, holding up a piece of paper.

"I'm sorry, John, really but this isn't my call. If it's not done proper I'll lose my job." Lestrade looked truly at a loss but John couldn't help but feel bitter towards him.

Climbing the stairs two at a time, John followed the men up to his room. They were glancing around without being intrusive just yet. One opened his closet door and peered in, brushing jumpers and button-downs aside as if whatever Sherlock had stolen would be stashed between John's clothes. The other opened his dresser drawer with a gloved hand and rifled through his shorts and undershirts, the older jumpers a drawer down, and his pants below them.

John's mouth twisted in concern and he moved to stand in front of the side table. It was obvious, he knew, but instinctual. He couldn't help but be protective towards it. His secret wasn't for them. It wasn't for anybody. Mostly, it wasn't for Sherlock…

They moved from the room and John breathed easily again. Following them out, he shut the door, on the room, the drawer, the rubbish, and the secret.


	2. Chapter 2

"You're upset with me." Sherlock stared across the room at John, over the top of the computer screen.

John looked over and remained silent. He turned his eyes towards the window and stared out at the rain coming down, trying to keep his mind off of the drawer upstairs. "Is it only to show them you're smarter?"

Sherlock watched John carefully then sat up in a flurry of his dark blue bathrobe. He sucked in a hissing of air and steepled his fingers in front of his face. "No, I was also bored."

"Sherlock! I've put up with a lot, haven't even cared about most of it. You keep body parts in our fridge, drugs in our flat, and experiments on our table. I don't ask for much out of this relationship we have, but I'd like some respect towards my personal space." Looking hard at Sherlock, John shifted in his seat. "You're not the only one with secrets, Sherlock."

A laugh left the consulting detective and he let his hands fall away. "You know you don't have secrets from me, John. You're easy to read."

Pursing his lips together, John pushed himself to the edge of his chair and stood up as well. "That's where you're wrong. I don't want them back here, in my things. Please." John walked out of the room and up to his bedroom. He knew better than to hang around Sherlock after mentioning a secret the man didn't know. It was stupid of him to say anything at all because now this could be a new game for Sherlock- finding John's secret.

Shutting the door behind him, John sat on his bed by the little table. Reaching over he pulled the drawer open slowly. The little box sat there still, unopened. He stared at it for long moments before slamming the drawer shut and falling back onto the bed. Looking up at the ceiling he sighed deeply and let his eyes slowly close.

A knock at his door kept John from falling into sleep. Sitting up on the bed and getting to his feet, he opened it up and found Sherlock standing there. "I'm hungry, let's go for dinner." He turned away from John and went back down the stairs. Rolling his eyes and grabbing his jacket, John followed.

Perhaps some food would do him good. Certainly getting out of the flat would help a bit. At the bottom of the stairs, John stopped short as Sherlock was standing looking up the stairs. "I'd bring your gun, things could get interesting."

John blinked at him. Frowning he sighed and went back up to his room, opened the drawer and reached in for the gun. He was about to pull it out when a hand came down and grabbed his wrist.

Jerking backwards, John looked over his shoulder at Sherlock, who he hadn't heard come up behind him. "What are you-"

Sherlock pulled the drawer open further and looked in. He reached for the box and John's hand came down on it. "Don't."

Sherlock pulled it out of the drawer and stared at John. "This is your secret?"


	3. Chapter 3

John stared at Sherlock, at the box in his hand and clenched his teeth together. His lips were pursed and eyebrows drawn in together, darkening his eyes. "It's nothing, Sherlock. I think you should put that down."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, drew in a deep breath, let his long violinist fingers dance along the rim, caressing it, and then put it onto the table top. The box remained unopened. For now. The taller male turned away and clomped back down the stairs, calling back up to John, "It seems such a simple thing to hide. I don't see why you're so upset."

Balking at his words, John rushed to the top of the stairs, gripped the doorframe and looked down, wondering if Sherlock actually knew what was there. "You've no idea what's in there, Sherlock. It's not 'simple'." He turned his back on the man, closed the door, and sat on the bedside. He let his own, thicker, less graceful fingers play along the lid top and pushed the lid backwards. There it sat, staring up at him with accusations and judgments.

Sighing, he shut the lid once more and stuffed it back in the drawer. Heading back downstairs he decided it was probably better to make up with his flatmate and get this all put behind him. "Shall I make us some tea, then?" he asked standing in the entrance of the main room looking at Sherlock was tapping away at the keys of his laptop. "Er, new case?" He noted the sight was The Science of Deduction.

"No, personal." Sherlock turned his eyes from the computer and over to John. "Tea would be nice."

Giving a smile that made his cheeks draw up in a cute, cheeky sort of manner, John turned around and into the kitchen. He put the kettle on the stove and rooted around the tea choices. He nearly dropped one container when he found what looked like dried up fingers in it. "Uh, Sherlock? I'm just curious…" he held the container up for the man to see.

"Oh, forgot about those. Thank you," Sherlock said jumping up from the couch and bounding over to snatch it from John. "Now I've got something new to write about. Changes the experiment of course, but this will do just fine. Preservation, mmm." He sat back down and opened up a new tab on his computer.

John shook his head and returned to what he was doing, picking out a nice green leaf blend. He smiled as he put two cups together and headed back into the main room. He placed a cup by Sherlock's hand and took up his normal seat, adjusting the pillow and settling in. His secret was safe for now and he and Sherlock were getting on again. That was important. He knew he couldn't stay upset with the man for very long and Sherlock didn't seem to stay upset with anything but Moriarty and Mycroft for more than a few seconds in which he could utter derogatory things at a person.

That usually seemed to cheer him up anyway. John was glad the most he asked of him was tea. "How's it?"

"Fine." Sherlock hadn't yet touched the tea.

(Question to those reading this- Comedic or Serious secret for John? I still don't know what it is…)


	4. Chapter 4

"We were going to dinner, weren't we?" Sherlock looked up suddenly as if remembering something profound.

"Er…we were, I suppose, yes." John took a sip of his tea and watched Sherlock curiously.

The man shook his head, a stray curled lock dashing across his forehead. "Not now, sorry." He drew in a deep breath and sat back away from the computer. "I think Lestrade will have a new case for us."

Just as his words had left him a siren blared down the road and lights bounced through the window from down the road. John looked out of the window then back to Sherlock and gaped at him. "How do you do that?"

"Internet, John. I told you I was taking on a personal case." He frowned, slapped the laptop down and stood up. Without so much as a word, he flounced out of the living room to his own room. He came back moments later in black dress pants, a white button-down, and his large navy coat, collar turned upwards, and of course, his scarf which he was in the process of wrapping around himself. "Let's go John. And your gun," he said nodding his head towards John's room.

Taking one last drink of his tea, John sat the cup down and went to his room for both gun and a jacket; his favorite, the one with the patches. He tucked the gun at the back of his waistband. When he got back down the stairs Sherlock was heading out of the door. John followed quickly, double checking that his phone was in his coat pocket. It would be a shame, missing dinner, but perhaps this was something interesting enough to keep John's mind from it.

The taxi took them to a small apartment building where police were already lined up and tromping around the crime in a manner Sherlock obviously disapproved of. John felt a little pity for the man being as they were ruining potential evidence for him to find. Following after Sherlock, they were stopped at the yellow tape by Donovan.

"I know Lestrade did not call you this time. We only just got here, Freak." She turned her eyes to John and smiled lightly. "Evening, Doctor. Still alive I see?"

John gave her a mostly pleasant smile as he tried not to be unpleasant with, well anybody. Donovan could get to him sometimes though, especially when he was feeling such bad thoughts of the man. Knowing that others felt poorly about him, made John feel worse about the negative thoughts he was having towards Sherlock. "Yes, for the most part."

John turned his eyes to Sherlock, wondering why they were there if Lestrade hadn't called.

"I've taken on a private case. I'm sure the wife will assure you that I'm supposed to be here." Sherlock attempted to step under the tape and Donovan stepped in front of him.

"Let me check first, before you go in and get me in trouble." Donovan turned away, waved a policeman over to make sure Sherlock didn't come in without her permission, then went in search of Lestrade.

John looked over at Sherlock, stepped closer, and lowered his voice. "Did you really?"

Sherlock glanced at him, "Hmm? Yes, of course."

With a nod, John stepped back just a little. "So what's the case?"

"Nothing major, I just wanted to step on some toes." Sherlock cocked his head to look past the policeman and into the scene, looking for Lestrade. "Ah, good."

Lestrade was approaching with a frantic looking woman. "She says she's hired you, Sherlock. Should we all pack up and let you have at it?" The DI looked over to John and nodded, obviously tentative about it considering the time at the apartment.

"No, no. Continue. I just want to walk through and have a talk with her." He stepped under the tape and held it for John to duck underneath.

John followed, thoughts far from the box in the drawer now. He always go so involved with Sherlock's work, was amazed by it. It took very great acts of deduction to draw a verbal "that's amazing" from him now, but he always thought it. At times, the way Sherlock beamed when John spewed appositives, it made John happy to do so. Perhaps he'd do so tonight and get further on Sherlock's good side and perhaps have him also forget about the box for the time being.

This case was as Sherlock said- nothing major. At least, not for Sherlock. He knew who had done it nearly the second he took the case on. John watched as the wife was arrested, gone from teary-eyed widow, to cursing murderer in a matter of seconds.

"No, dinner, I think John." Sherlock strode away, hands tucked into his pockets, with a scowling Scotland Yard watching him.

John could only follow. They wound up at a Chinese restaurant, Sherlock having checked the door handle before entering. John still didn't understand that habit but he'd never had bad food when out with Sherlock either.

"I am curious how something so small can upset you." Sherlock was looking out of the window, his plate no more than picked from.

Letting the fork drop his mouth, John stared at the man for a moment. "How do you mean?"

"That secret," Sherlock turned his eyes back to John. "That you have tucked away."

John coughed and set the fork down on the plate. He picked up a napkin and wiped his mouth and shifted in his seat. "Sherlock, what's in that box is none of your concern. And if you already know, why are you prolonging this?"

Sherlock frowned, sat his chin in his hands and his elbows perched on the table top. "I don't know what it is which is why I'm asking about it." He looked John in the eyes. "How come you won't let me know?"

"Because it's nothing I want anyone knowing. It's in the past, over with, and I don't want to remember it." John got up, left some cash on the table and went out.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock of course followed after John, having not paid too much attention to his own food anyway. John was a few metres down the street when Sherlock's hand landed on his shoulder. He turned with a start and an, "Oh," before continuing on. His hands were stuffed neatly in his pockets and his pace was brisk. Both men knew that John was trying to get away; trying to avoid Sherlock.

That didn't stop the man. He walked faster, having longer legs and all, then stepped around John and put out his hands, stopping him. He stared down with silver-gray eyes.

"What?" John breathed out exasperation, letting his shoulders droop.

"I don't see why you're so resistant. You know I'll find out sooner or later." Sherlock raised his eyebrows as if to emphasize his point. It didn't help much.

John rolled his eyes and squared his shoulders, ducking around the taller man. His lips were turned upside down and his brows furrowed. "I don't care, I just don't want to talk about it." He pulled his hands from his jacket to zip it up further.

They walked back to the apartment in silence which John was thankful for. He wasn't sure he could take further conversation about this. The case had been too quick a reprieve from the delving into his personal life. He hoped that Lestrade would call soon with some tricky case that would have Sherlock dancing across town with his nose in a microscope for at least a week. That would give John time to get rid of the secret.

No, he couldn't just toss it. He would have to re-hide it. Somewhere less obvious this time. Perhaps with Harry. Yes, that would do certainly. She wasn't one for prying into his life and besides, she already knew the secret. He'd been forced into confidence with her about these things considering she was the only family he'd had upon his return. There would be no harm in that, only-

Sherlock would find out that he'd left it with her and he could probably talk his way into Harry's place, get a good peek around, and find the box. Harry had been telling John since he'd moved in with Sherlock that the two made a cute couple. Of course, John was very much into the opposite gender and a certain female doctor besides, but that didn't stop Harry's fantasies about his relationship with Sherlock. He sighed and when they got to the apartment, slunk down into his favorite chair, holding the pillow with the Union Jack covering it close to him. He started to drift off, the silence of the apartment nice and calming. Sherlock was wandering the place, picking up papers here and there, reading this and that, and making notes when he deemed necessary. John watched him through half-closed eyes for long minutes until sleep over took him.

When he woke, Sherlock was sitting on the couch across from him. The little brown box that held John's darkest secret sat before him, the contents leaked across the table and glaring accusingly at John. He couldn't breathe. He really couldn't as he looked at what lie there. Turning dishwater hazel eyes to Sherlock, he looked at him with betrayal.

"Why would you do this?"

"I wanted to know."

"I said it wasn't for you to know. Can't you just leave it be?"

"I don't see how this is so bad, anyway. John it's an honor-"

"One that doesn't belong to me."

John shoved the pillow down in the chair and lifted himself up, his leg suddenly aching as it had after the war. He stepped down on it and cringed, grasping it and limping over to the table. He grabbed frantically at the pieces that sat there, the paper of honorable discharge, the medical paper showing his injuries, and the Victoria Cross. He hated that the most, the crimson band, the lion stamped on the front, and the blaring date of 2010.

"Highest of honors, they called it." John had the papers folded and put back away but the cross sat in his hand. "For bravery in the face of the enemy. I'd saved many lives, they said." He looked down and shoved the Cross back in the box, shook his head and stood up. "I don't want to remember this, Sherlock."

"But you did save lives, didn't you?" Sherlock was at the edge of his seat. "I know I'm a sociopath and the intricacies of the normal human tend to escape me, but isn't this award a good thing?"

John looked at him flatly. "I left with a fake injury and a Cross commemorating a mistake I'd made. I wouldn't have had to save any of them if I hadn't…" He looked towards the stairwell and walked away again, this time almost hoping Sherlock would follow.

"You're an idiot John Watson." Sherlock let him go and when he was out of ear shot he smiled. "But you're my idiot."


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock waited patiently for John to quit his sulking. He knew it was only a matter of time before the man came back out and the two made up in their way. Sherlock was currently putting on tea, perhaps hoping that the smell would drift up and drag John back down to him. This was an apology, though he didn't fully understand his fault. He'd often not listened to John, pried when he shouldn't have, and had normally received, "Brilliant" from the man. This was the first time that John Watson had acted like other people in reaction to Sherlock's oddness.

Somehow, it hurt. Sherlock wasn't really accustomed to hurting, but there it was. It sat in the center of his chest like a weight. Sherlock couldn't say it was uncomfortable really, but it certainly wasn't a comfort either.

Going to the fridge, Sherlock froze upon opening it. There was no milk. Of course there wasn't. Hadn't Sherlock promised _days_ ago that he'd be the one to run to the store this time 'round? And, unsurprisingly, he hadn't. John hadn't either though. Perhaps the man was truly getting fed up with Sherlock.

Sighing heavily, Sherlock shut the stove off and se the kettle on another part of it. Snagging up his coat and some money, Sherlock headed out of the door and down the stairs. He could feel his phone in his pocket which was good in case John wondered where he'd wandered off to. It was just down the road a pace and wouldn't take him long but John, he knew, worried.

Grabbing a carton of milk and paying for it, Sherlock hurried off back toward the flat. Everything was the same, no texts, no movement upstairs, and the kettle off to the side where he'd left it. Getting things set again, carton of milk now in the fridge, Sherlock settled back into making tea. The honeyed smell of it wafted through the flat, painting it with its perfume. Certainly John had to catch it and come down soon.

He never came. Sherlock sat on the couch with two cups of tea before him, watching them slowly losing their steam. He blinked a few times, steepled his fingers, sat back, then forward, but didn't leave the couch.

Perhaps he'd really done wrong this time, but he couldn't help but think John was being touchy. Sherlock knew so much about him because he was easy to read, so why couldn't he know about his Cross? Secrets were useless anyway. If John paid any attention to Sherlock, he'd know so much about Sherlock.

John did know a lot about him, Sherlock decide. Much more than anyone knew, if you weren't counting Mycroft. Then again, Mycroft couldn't pull Sherlock from a mood with naught but a word or two. John had done so on quite a few occasions. In fact, John did a lot for Sherlock. He gave him things to think about when his mind was stuck in a static void of anything interesting. John played along with his experiments for the most part. Best of all, John spewed his thoughts outright, calling Sherlock genius, or brilliant, or bloody wonderful if Sherlock was good enough. It had come to be that Sherlock based his good work on whenever he could get John Watson to spout some fabulous compliment on his work.

Now, the one person Sherlock's life had found some center of balance with was upset because Sherlock had finally found the boundaries. And over stepped them. Of course he had; for all of Sherlock's complete genius, the workings of the regular human life escaped him.

The tea had not helped. Now it was cold. Sherlock got up and dumped them out.


	7. Chapter 7

John walked down from his room as quietly as he could manage. The box was still open, contents dumped on his bed, and being ignored for now. He peered into the sitting room and found Sherlock asleep, as far as John could tell, on the couch. His long legs were stretched towards the end of the couch and he was wrapped comfortably in his blue dressing gown.

"Hmph." John walked into the kitchen and looked around for the tea he'd smelled not thirty minutes earlier. Nothing but empty cups in the sink. He sighed and headed back from where Sherlock slept.

He stood there, looking down at the impossibly intelligent and all together dense detective. John smiled and shook his head. Harmless, really. Sherlock didn't think like the others, didn't care like the others, and John shouldn't fault him for something so small in Sherlock's own mind. Stepping up to the couch, John crouched near Sherlock's head.

"You aren't really sleeping, are you Sherlock?"

No response. John sighed again and jabbed a finger into the other man's shoulder. Still nothing. He reached up and placed his hand on Sherlock's chest, then shook him slightly. "Sherlock."

Silvery eyes opened and landed on John's hazel ones. "Mmm. Here to yell at me some more? Dull…"

John actually laughed. "No, I'm here to make you take me out to dinner as an apology for being a tosser."

Sherlock frowned at him and folded his hands over his chest. "Not hungry."

"But I am, so let's go and get you into some proper clothes, hmm?" John stood and started walking away, not waiting for Sherlock to argue or come up with some other poor excuse.

"John…"

"Not listening, Sherlock. Get your arse off that couch and let's go."

"John, listen. I'm sorry."

That stopped John dead in his tracks. "Pardon me, what?"

Sherlock sat up and made a noise that John could only describe as growling. "I said listen."

Turning fully around, John walked back over so that he could see Sherlock on the couch. "Yes, and after that? I just want to make sure I'm hearing you correctly, did you apologize for something?"

The beautifully lanky man blinked lazily at John. "Yes, I did."

_Beautfully…?_ John wasn't sure where that thought had come from, but as he looked Sherlock blinking those bright eyes at him and part his lips just enough to mutter _yes_, John couldn't help but think beautiful was the perfect word for him. "Fine, but I still expect an evening out." This time when he walked away, he went all the way to his room. John's heart was in his throat as he put the items back in the box and set them on top of the nightstand. His mind was not on them any longer. Sherlock had apologized to him, had admitted to a wrongdoing. It was flattering. He'd never heard the man seriously apologize for anything he did.

John had honestly thought Sherlock was of the belief that Sherlock Holmes could do no wrong. Life threw so many wonderful surprises at John. He rifled through his wardrobe and pulled out a nicer shirt than the old Rugby T he was wearing and slipped it over his head. He kept the jeans and trainers though.

When he came back down, Sherlock was standing in the entry in one of his suits. He was typing rapidly into his phone.

"What now?" John asked coming over, rolling the sleeves of his button-down.

"Mycroft… frustrating…"

"So nothing important then? We won't be missing supper?"

Sherlock flicked his hand around in that unimportant manner he'd perfected. The phone disappeared into his pocket quickly then Sherlock's attention turned to John. "Where are you taking us?"

John smiled, reached out and patted Sherlock's arm. "You've not been paying attention."

John was very sure he'd never seen Sherlock's head snap back in surprise so perfectly before.

"Pardon?" Sherlock asked.

With a laugh, John urged towards the door. "_You're_ taking _me_ out, as an apology remember."

The two stood in a silent gaping battle while John watched Sherlock trying to sort through this new confidence that overcome the ex-military doctor.


	8. Chapter 8

(a/n Thanks for the follows and favorites! I should have a pretty long next entry. I know they've all be rather short, but I'm building this on the fly without any sense of direction… hope that doesn't ruin anything!)_

Sitting in Angelo's together, John didn't even try to argue against the candle put between them. He stared across the table at the man with his nose to his mobile. John frowned and taped a finger on the tabletop. It did not persuade Sherlock from whatever he was doing. Their regular orders were placed down a few minutes later and still Sherlock held the phone up, typing away.

"Are you going to be at that the whole time?"

That pulled his glance up, briefly. "No."

With a roll of his eyes, John started eating. He was a few bites in when he tried again, "I just thought of something interesting."

Sherlock put the phone down on the table and raised one eyebrow in a tight arch. "I can only imagine what you'd think is interesting. Please, continue."

John couldn't tell if that tone was snide or genuine curiosity. "Well, conversation, you know, between you and me."

"I told you Mycroft is up to something."

"Can't I have some attention, too?" John had put his fork aside and he was leaning over the table with a serious look on his face. "You've rummaged through my biggest secret and I think I deserve some attention."

Sherlock actually chuckled. "If you watched more closely, you'd see that I pay you the utmost attention."

"How do you mean?"

"Who ordered that?" Sherlock pointed at John's plate. "You didn't have to say a word and I already had this set for us. I picked through your secret John because I have to absolutely know everything about you. You hid from me."

John looked down into his lap, gathered a breath, then looked back up at the other man. "Yes, of course I did. It's not something I'm proud of so why would I spill it to you?"

"It's an honor, John."

"I already told you-"

"Yes, yes, it was from a faked injury. Although, 'faked' is the wrong word. Psychosomatic. I've already told you that, as well. Which could be considered an injury in itself."

John shook his head. "That isn't the sort of attention I'm asking for."

"Married to my work, remember I told you that?"

John shrugged. "Sure, we were sitting right here. That doesn't mean I'm listening to that now."

Sherlock gaped at him. "There is no end to your surprising me."

"Brilliant, I know."

"Mm." Sherlock picked the phone back up.

John was about to protest in a much louder and obscene sort of way until he heard the mobile power down. Then he blinked and watched Sherlock pick up his fork, digging into the parmesan. "Alright, what convinced you?"

He received a shrug of one shoulder. "You're self proclaimed brilliance should be able to help you deduce it out."

With a smile, John started eating as well. "Your brother hasn't kidnapped me lately. Is he off his game, or playing something new?"

"New, I believe. He's asking me to come to dinner with him and Mummy."

John cocked an eyebrow and pursed his lips in that almost 'o' fashion. "Are you going?"

"Don't be ridiculous, of course not."

Blinking a few quick times, John pushed. "Wouldn't it be nice… to see them?"

Sherlock set the fork down and leaned across the table. "John, I said don't be ridiculous. You'll be going in my place though. Mycroft needs someone there, and I've volunteered you. Of course, brother dearest said I was a great prat and would be coming myself."

John almost choked on his food. "Excuse me, I'm going? No, no. No, Sherlock, I'm not going to have dinner with your family while you sit back and ignore them."

The look John received had him suddenly doubting he could ever say no to Sherlock.


	9. Chapter 9

(A/N I know, I know… I am the worst at updating. But here's a bit. I'm still working out details on how this will work out so it's another short post. Apologies to any still reading.)

John put on his best suit and pulled the curtains aside, looking down at the road for Mycroft's car. "Sherlock, I can't believe you're having me do this…"

He glanced over and saw Sherlock wrapping the blue scarf about his neck. "I'll be out helping Lestrade, but you can reach my mobile." He tucked the phone in his jacket pocket and headed for the door.

"Sherlock, seriously reconsider. You should be there; it's your _mum_ for goodness sake." He dropped the curtains and turned to the detective just as he was opening their flat door. He stared at him with a frown but the man kept right on going. John felt like twitching and wasn't quite sure why he was going in Sherlock's place.

"I'll get some more tea while I'm out," Sherlock called from the hallway and then popped down the stairs, leaving the door open.

John rolled his eyes and wandered back to the window. He watched as Sherlock walked out and not a minute later Mycroft pulled up. Grabbing a nice jacket, light brown and lined inside, John headed out of the flat himself and tried to feel comfortable with this interesting situation.

"John," Mycroft said when the car door was pulled open. John poked his head in and smiled.

"I tried to get him to go, but he wouldn't. He's headed out with Lestrade."

"Mm, typical. I have to admit I am disappointed and just slightly surprised he'll be letting mummy down. Again. Of course, it will somehow be my fault." He sighed and looked out of his window, flattening his shirt with a hand.

Pursing his lips in a very thoughtful manner, John looked heavily over at Mycroft. "Why am I here, exactly?"

Mycroft glanced at John then back out of the window. "Sherlock wants someone in his place, and I'm hoping that with you showing up you'll be the draw for him to eventually show up."

"The draw? Bloody brilliant. And what will your mum say about me in the first place? I just walk up and say 'Hullo, John H. Watson formerly of the Army Medical Division. I'll be filling in for your youngest son for the time being. Great to meet you'?"

From the corner of his eye, John could see Mycroft shaking his head with the pretentious frown-smile he somehow pulled off. 

"If you wish."

"If I wish… God, I don't know who is worse, you or Sherlock." He shook his own head and stared blankly out of the window.

John gaped as they pulled into a large country mansion, complete with gardens, wrought iron fences, and a doorman on the front marble steps. The drive was made up of elegant white rocks, and John was just waiting for some fantastic exotic creature to come strutting from the yard. He stood in slight awe, only to be nudged by Mycroft's umbrella. "Right, yeah." He followed the man who controlled the whole of the British government into his mother's house and grit his teeth. If the outside was any sort of show, the inside was even more glamorous.

"So…you Holmes boys grew up here? How much damage did you rack up with experiments and fighting here?"

This made Mycroft frown for real, like the time John asked 'So you really are concerned about him'. "Far too much. We gave mummy quite the headache most days. It's not a wonder she took up drinking until she could rid herself of us on a more permanent basis than private schooling."

"Mm, yeah private school. I can see that from Sherlock." John shook his head and came to halt next to Mycroft in a large entrance hall.

A pair of doors opened and out stepped the perfect, if not quite older, femme version of Sherlock Holmes if John had ever seen one. "Ah Mycroft, dearest. Who is this?"

"Mother, this is John Watson, a friend of Sherlock's."

She just blinked at her eldest son. "Pardon me? Di you say a friend?" The way her hair curled about her face, longer than Sherlock's but still that silky black, she took on the serious look that John had often seen on Sherlock's face.

"Yes I did. John, this is our mother, Violet Holmes."


	10. Chapter 10

John stepped up and reached a hand out to Violet. She looked so remarkably like Sherlock that John couldn't help but stare a moment. "Sorry that Sherlock couldn't make it. He does a lot of work with DI Lestrade and I think he was called out again."

"Oh, ever the soldier Johnny?" Violet's voice was a soft silken noise and it sounded just as condescending as Sherlock's. Now he knew where Sherlock and Mycroft got it all from.

"Hmm." He murmured thoughtfully.

Mycroft moved up and put a hand on her shoulder. "Mummy please, it's not the good Doctor's fault. We both knew Sherlock wasn't going to come."

"Oh, Army Doctor, then. Of course, should have seen that. Perhaps he can help me out with my back pain later." She moved from under her elder son's hand and back up into the house. "And if your brother cared at all for my heart condition he would show up before I pass away."

John followed with his hands politely tucked behind his back. They moved into a large dining room off the east wing of the house. He listened as Mycroft and Violet spoke in hushed tones together. He only picked up snatches of what they were saying, and John had a feeling this was going to be a very long evening.

The three took seats at a large table already set with salads and drinks. John waited for the other two, before he started on his own salad.

"Has my dear Sherlock been keeping his nose clean?"

John took a moment to answer, thinking she was talking to Mycroft. When he looked up in the silence, Violet was staring right at him. "Oh, erm, yes, as a manner of speaking."

"Mm, typical of your kind… can you please expand on that? A bit dull an answer, don't you think?" She took a bite of salad, delicate mouth working it over cleanly.

He blinked at her with a mouth bowed in surprise. "Yes. Sorry, he's working cases mostly. Hasn't blown up the flat. Although, I briefly thought about getting a Bull Pup but tossed that idea out when he poisoned my tea one afternoon." He smiled tightly at her, having forgotten his food already. It was amazing how Holmes' could rid him of an appetite so quickly.

"Did you drink it?"

"Pardon?" John looked at her as if she had three heads.

"Please try to keep up here Johnny. Did you drink the tea?"

"Of course not, not when I smelled what he put in it."

"Pity, Sherlock's very good with poisons and remedies. He needs to stay in practice." She pushed her plate off to the side and a young girl in a conservative serving uniform hurried over to pick it up. The rest of the plates were grabbed by other servers as well and then a soup was brought out.

John wasn't sure he could sit here the entire night. She was more infuriating than Sherlock.

The night dragged on through a main course, through Violet hounding him about Sherlock's work and progress. John kept up as much as he could, and kept his mouth shut about being addressed as "Johnny" or "The Doctor". Of course, he was rather tickled, silently, about the second title since it had to do with a favourite television show of his.

Just when John thought he could take no more the dining room doors banged open to admit a Sherlock in his fluttering long coat. "Sorry I'm late Mummy. Pressing matters elsewhere. Have you been treating my Doctor well?" He sat next to John with a wink and a crooked smile.

"Of course I have, Sherlock. Don't be ridiculous."

Staring between the two of them, John felt like he was going to start twitching.

"You're just in time for your favorite desert. I'm glad to know you care more about that than your poor mother's heart condition. At least you sent me a doctor in case I fell over to die!" She huffed and slunk in her chair, much like Sherlock did on the couch back at the flat.

"Now you're the one being ridiculous. John and I will be going after desert." Sherlock tossed one leg over the other, pulling his jacket with it and keeping uncomfortably covered up. "Aren't we John?"

"Oh no, you don't get to pull me into this. You're here now and you should be the one dealing with your mother." John pushed back from his seat. "It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Violet. Have fun with your sons." He put the napkin from his lap on the tabletop and headed out. Fortunately he had a good memory, because the house was huge.

John was at the front door before he felt the hand on his wrist. He halted and looked back, expecting Sherlock. Violet stood there instead. "…"

John raised an eyebrow at her silent look of pleading. "Yes?" he asked as politely as he could manage.

"I…" She grimaced. "Am sorry, please rejoin us. You've obviously done Sherlock a lot of good, and I was being cruel to you all night in his absence."

He blinked a few times, gathering his thoughts, and pursed his lips. "Alright." He turned back with her, allowing her to slip a hand through his arm. "You wouldn't happen to know a secret of Sherlock's that I could use against him, would you?" He asked keeping the pacing slow back to the dining room.


	11. Chapter 11

John sat in his chair, typing quickly into his computer. He was updating his blog because Ella was following up, and noted he hadn't done so in a few weeks. John had just fallen behind with all that had been going on. He hadn't purposefully neglected what his therapist thought was a healthy pastime for him. Besides, Sherlock neglected finding another case this last week. Apparently, one night with his mum and brother could really set him off his game.

In fact, Sherlock was so much off his game that he'd asked John how he was this morning. At the same time, he was putting shopping away in the kitchen.

He tried not to look up at Sherlock now, hearing him moving about the flat, not speaking. John wondered if the silence that set in after John frowned at his "good morning" was going to be one of those weeklong silences. It might almost be better. John was still waiting for him to press more about the medal tucked in the drawer. John hadn't really thought about it until they'd returned from dinner with the Holmes' family, but it was creeping back into his conscious now and he was beginning to worry again.

Being the flatmate of a sociopath came with the unfortunate territory of becoming his learning platform regarding the normal workings of the rest of society. While most of the time, John didn't mind because he felt it important for Sherlock to have a "good" "bit not good" voice, John was starting to dislike this role. The spreading silence from Sherlock this afternoon may indicate that he was catching on to this discomforting fact.

Probably not though. For the most observant man in the world, Sherlock could be quite dense sometimes. Only when it came to deducing what to do with a person's feelings, of course, but still he had his stupid moments.

When John had shut his laptop, posting some ridiculous thing about meeting some more of the Holmes' family, he looked about the eerily quiet flat.

Sherlock was on the couch, sitting back against it almost normally, except for the fact that he'd pulled his knees up to this chest and had his arms wrapped around his legs, chin resting on his knees. He was staring so intently at John that the ex-army doctor actually gasped.

"Oh…"

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow up at him but remained silent, ever watchful.

"What?"

The detective just shook his head. John blinked at him in response, then pursed his lips.

"Right. I'm going for a walk. You staying here?"

With a shake of his head, Sherlock unfurled himself from the couch and bounded through the kitchen and down the hall to his room. John grabbed their jackets and waited for Sherlock to come back. He slipped his own on and held Sherlock's long coat draped over an arm. The other man came back into the room newly dressed in his slacks and a purple button up. The one that opened at the neck just perfectly so that anyone could see that impossibly long neck, leading up to those razor sharp cheekbones of his.

John flushed and held out the jacket. Sherlock took it from him, slipped it on, and of course, popped the collar up.

"Need your scarf?"

Sherlock twirled around, looking for it and then turned back to John with a frown.

"Don't look at me, I haven't seen it." John started about the place, turning over piles of this and that in search of it. "Damn it, Sherlock, where'd you lose it?"

Of course, only silence answered him. John sighed and headed for the couch, turning over cushions. The blue scarf was there beneath. "Here, I have it. Come on, let's go now." He held the thing out without really looking for Sherlock and headed for the door. He felt the fabric tugged through his fingers and stepped out of the flat. He could hear Sherlock locking up behind them so he kept going. His mind was full of things today and he wasn't going to let Sherlock direct things in his silent state.

The two walked down the road, headed for the one of the nearby parks that John liked to walk through. It wasn't far, but it was a bit cold out. The wind was biting through the fabric of the patched jacket, and it helped to ground John's mind. Though he was loathe to admit out loud right now, having Sherlock walking with him also helped that.

John's thoughts were on the man, after all, and being able to glance at him and feel his presence there streamed his thoughts in one specific direction. 

"John."

He nearly tripped in his walking, but gathered himself quickly and looked up at Sherlock. "Oh, you're speaking again?"

"John, I want to ask you something, but I think it falls under the category of "bit not good". Can I still ask it?"

Tugging at Sherlock's sleeve, John pulled them both over to a bench in the park and sat down. He thought for a few long, silent moments, just staring at Sherlock who had the decency to watch back. "Alright," John came to a decision against his better judgment. "Yes, ask, what is it?"

"When I said I was married to my work, you said you were ignoring that. You went in my place to my mother's. You won't speak of a time you're ashamed of to me."

After a few minutes of silence, John realized he wasn't going to ask a question. He realized that the statements, in Sherlock's mind, were enough to supply some obvious question. John wasn't quite following. "I'm sorry, what exactly are you asking me? Are we going back to the Cross, because it's not something I'm comfortable-"

"No, John I-" Sherlock cut himself off with a deep frown and shifted closer. "Come now, follow along please. I _need_ you to understand what I'm asking here because I'm not sure how to ask it."

John stared him again, went back over what Sherlock has said. He stared into the shifting silver eyes and almost grimaced. "Yes, I do like you. I don't know why, after that stunt you pulled, and leaving me at your mum's, but I do. If that's what you want to know."

"Like…"

"Oh Sherlock, sometimes there is so much you don't see. It's a bit, erm, more than like okay?"

"I've had relationships, you know."

John thought of one woman in particular, one who had warned him that Sherlock would always let them down, and wondered if she could be one of those… "Yeah, I've figured."

Sherlock pulled back suddenly, surprise washing over his face. "You've figured? How?"

"Well, you may be a bit sociopathic, but you have a confidence about yourself that tells me you're not a virgin. I don't know, just something I've read about you."

"Ah, so now you can do what I can?"

John frowned at him with almost a growl. "Now, I didn't say that, but I see things you don't, you know."

Sherlock sighed. "Yeah, I know. So, what do you see about me right now?"

"What?"

The detective didn't grace him with a repeat of the question, and John didn't really need him too. Instead he looked Sherlock up and down, then back to his eyes and felt himself blushing. Sherlock's eyes were so focused on John's face that he could almost feel Sherlock boring into his mind. "Eh, well, I um, you…"

When John had his lips puckered with the word "you" Sherlock leaned in and cut off the sentence. He put his lips to John's, in a quick but destabilizing kiss.

"And now?"

"Um, you're planning some scandalous affair on your work?" John smiled crookedly at him.


End file.
